


the odds

by softshelltaako



Category: Welcome to Hell - All Media Types
Genre: Guns, Heist AU, M/M, Violence, background liljo, can u tell im an ex-rt fan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-16 14:02:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29577222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softshelltaako/pseuds/softshelltaako
Summary: Sock is a planner. He plans things. It’s his job, and he’s incredible at it.Except, y’know, when he isn’t. Then it almost kills him.It’s a living.
Relationships: Jojo | Joane/Lil | Magill Nancy, Jonathan Combs/Napoleon Maxwell Sowachowski | Sock
Kudos: 2





	the odds

**Author's Note:**

> i’ve been itching to write some more wth so i’m crossposting some of my wattpad stuff to establish a couple au’s im fond of. this one is the heist au, loosely based off the fake AH crew. sock is the brains, jon is the brawn, lil and jojo have loosely-defined roles yet to be fleshed out. lmk how you feel about it! thanks for reading<3

Despite his neurotic nature, Sock had always been the brains. From day one, crowded in the cluttered den of Jon's apartment, Lil and Jojo on the sofa with Jon in the armchair and Sock leaning against it at his feet, he was the backbone of every operation. He crafted careful plans with a hundred different safeguards, a solution for any unexpected bump, and stayed up night after night testing and retesting each course of action. He ran himself ragged until Jon found him passed out over his laptop, tablet, and notebooks on the living room floor.

This heist was like any other. Just like before, he ran routes and fallbacks, mapped emergency exits, planned for every slipup and interference. Many a night did Jon carry him, unconscious and thoroughly exhausted, into bed, gently closing up his work but leaving the careful chaos for him to find again upon waking. It wasn't any harder than the usual run; just raiding a local gang's arms stash. His plans were always perfect, precise, and infallible.

 _Except_ , he guesses, _this time._

The boot against his cheek pushes down harder, grinding bits of dirt and gravel into the gash on the side of his face which meets the ground. The voice screams at him once more, the same voice that's been screaming for hours and sheesh, his head is pounding. He flinches at a pop in his jaw, but the pressure doesn't let up. His body is a patchwork of numbness and stinging, every inch either buzzing uncomfortably or burning with fresh cuts. Either dirt or dried blood leaves his face feeling stiff. Both are becoming familiar feeings atop his skin at this point. What he wouldn't give for a hot shower.

That's a thought for later, as he realizes he can feel pins and needles in his left cheek, which means the boot must have lifted. A significant improvement.

"Tell us where you came from!”

 _The southeast entrance_ , Sock thinks to himself. _Ya really should improve your post out there. One dozing doofus is no match for a well-aimed dagger. After that, getting to the arms closet was easy. A simple padlock? For all of those weapons? You were askin' for it. Getting out was the hard part. Woulda been a piece of cake if I didn't clip the oil bin with that rifle on the way out. The clatter was enough to get you knuckleheads away from the card game and into our way._

A swift kick to the face garners his attention, rousing him from his internal analysis. Hundreds of failsafes and yet a clumsy step and a jammed gun are what took him out in the end. Fucking shameful.

"We're talkin' to you, rat!"

Sock takes a moment to blink the stars from his eyes, rolling over to spit the blood pooling in his mouth onto the concrete. "Fuck you." It sounds thick and odd to his own ears and when he tries to look up at the men standing above him, his head swims. The minor light filtering in from outside is still too much for his head to handle. His senses are excessively heightened, like someone cranked the contrast in his brain way up. It's... overwhelming. Nauseating.

The pain only worsens when the man - men, it sounds like now - erupt into cackles around him. The sound pings around wickedly inside his skull. They must get a kick out of this, the sick fucks. That's a hypocritical thought, actually, because this is the kind of thing Sock would snicker at, too - some kid in way over his head, cuffed on the dirty floor of an abandoned warehouse, on the brink of consciousness and soaked in his own blood.  


He can't help but wonder where the rest are - Lil and Jojo but mainly Jon. They're not the type to break up during a mission unless absolutely necessary. Despite Sock ordering the others to "go, take the shit and go!", he hadn't... _really_ expected them to. True, it's always been their agreement to follow Sock's orders without question. He's reliable, prepared, and surely has some kind of solution up his sleeve, except for when he doesn't, which is never, save for now. Regardless of all of that, Jon is stubborn, protective regardless of the risk, and the only one who knows he can defy Sock's orders without immediately being booted from the team.

Still, he's loyal to a fault, and wouldn't ignore Sock unless all other options were exhausted. That wasn't supposed to be the case this time. Sock could easily slip away from those goons, even if it meant ditching a few of the bigger weapons (and subsequently a few thousand dollars) along the way. This job was simple, the target easy.

More like vastly underestimated, it seems.  
Sock's heavy tongue flits out over bone dry lips, tasting the sour iron of blood- when was the last time he'd had a drink? Surely before they captured him. It could only be a matter of time before Jon and the others came back for him.

He chokes on a laugh, bitter and exhausted. As if. They haven't come by now, and they definitely don't intend to. Brains are easy enough to replace. Just find another guy who's competent with hacking and has some vague concept of good timing and they're set. God, what was he thinking? He's decent with weapons, but he's too reckless, too bloodthirsty. Gets too in his head during a fight. He's ruthless without any of the brawn to back it up. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

"Wake up, kid!" Another kick to the side. He's been dozing, slouching towards the floor again. God, he's tired. Or concussed. Maybe both. He squints against the light, forcing his cotton mouth open and drawing croaky words from his throat.

"Listen, boys. If you're gonna kill me, jus' do it already. Y'not gonna get anything out of me, your guns are gone except for the ones y'got pointed at my head right now, might as well just-"

The butt of one of said guns whacks the back of his head and his face falls forward to meet concrete. Ouch. "We'll drag this out nice and slow 'til you tell us what we wanna hear. Where did they go?"

Sock can't lift his head up again, too heavy, too loud. Bells sound in his ears, echoing like the clash of cymbals. He lays still and tries to gather his breathing while the blood bubbles in his nose, dripping down to coat his throat. He lets his eyes fall shut, body sinking into the floor. Too heavy. Too loud. The blows feel distant, like pokes through a puffer vest, cushioned by the body he doesn't feel too connected with anymore. He's inside the shell, retreating like a tortoise, and hell if he doesn't feel just as sluggish.

It takes him a moment to realize the attacks have stopped. Why? He braces his hands beneath himself, trying to push up, but his elbows roll like a ball-jointed doll and there's no force behind it. He's trapped in a pose resembling downward dog. Lovely.

He tries to use his place on the floor to his advantage, focusing on his surroundings over the pounding of his own stubborn heart. Footsteps, pounding across the concrete. One bang. Two. Three four five six seven eight - a scuffle. Another gang? No. Doesn't make sense. Nothing makes sense. He just wants a nap.

Pain stabs through Sock's body, slicing a white line of agony behind his eyelids. He thinks he cries out, feels like it in his chest, but then he's choking on blood. Everything burns. A thousand blades are digging into his legs until he realizes he's standing. Standing isn't exactly the right word because someone is hauling him by the arm. Are they changing locations? No, no, they _can't_ , Jon will never find him then. He tries his best to thrash despite the numbness enveloping his body, kicking with dead legs, swinging his torso about like a fish on deck. Gotta fight, his brain screams, gotta last.

 _For what?_ another thought echoes. _What's the point? I'm good as dead._

_For the heist. For them. For him._

It's a sudden, random burst of strength that lets him swing a leg back, connecting with what feels like a kneecap. _Good_ , he thinks, before plummeting to the ground and that one aches. Desperately, his feet scramble for purchase on the ground as he rolls about, writhing in an attempt to stand while his hands remain cuffed at his back. Everything is on fire; his wounds, his muscles, the bones beneath them. It feels like he's crumbling with every move and for fuck's sake does he hate feeling so fragile.

A hand closes around his shoulder and he panics again, swinging his leg in any direction he can reach, determined to live and coasting on adrenaline. The hand tightens and he waits for the sound of a gun cocking and the feeling of cold metal between his eyes that doesn't come. Instead, there's a warm and calloused palm on his cheek and he goes rigid.

It has to be him.

If it's not, Sock isn't sure he has the energy to fight anymore. He's blinded by the blood running into his eyes from the gash in his forehead, his lungs are rattling away in his ribs, and he's not sure he'll even be conscious much longer.

The resignment lets him go limp as the owner of the hand hauls him over their shoulder, bouncing as they run... somewhere. The pain is overwhelming. Sock feels like he's about to either pass out or die, and hopes it's the first before everything goes quiet.

When he wakes however many hours later, he almost wishes it had been the second.  
A groan pulls its way from his chest and he makes to stretch before a twinge runs through his abdomen. Right. Roughed up.

It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the light but when they do, Sock recognizes the surroundings immediately. Jon's bedroom. Dim, littered with unfolded laundry and CDs - the only guy in the country who still buys CDs. The thought makes Sock snort. Such a nerd.

Speak of the devil. The door to the room creaks quietly open and a head of messy blond hair pokes in, followed by the crash of a tumbling stack of CDs. "Oh shit..." Blue eyes shift up to the bed before widening in shock. "Oh shit." It's barely a second before Jon is at the side of the bed, the speed almost dizzying to Sock's muddled brain. His hands hover over Sock's bruised arms, eventually settling gently over one of his hands and cupping it between both of his own.

"Hello, Flash." Sock cracks a grin despite the painful split in his lip. Jon rolls his eyes, halfheartedly pushing at Sock's shoulder but still clearly conscious of his injuries.

"Cut me some slack. It's the first time you've moved in a whole day. I was starting to think Lil had lost her usual touch." And we'd lost you, hangs silently in the air, unspoken but incredibly clear in the way Jon's tired eyes flit anxiously over Sock's body.

"Have you slept at all since then? You look like shit, hot stuff. Must be tired if you stormed in guns blazing to save my ass."

"You know me. Action hero." Jon flexes one fairly toned arm and it's enough to earn him a grin. "Besides, you're currently taking up the only decent sleeping space in this shithole."

"Forgive me for being taken hostage!"

"Your own poor planning." Jon expects a laugh but Sock's smile dies on his lips. His gaze falls to the blanket over his lap, tugging his hand out of Jon's grasp to fidget with his own fingers and the blond feels instantaneously guilty. "I didn't mean it like that... Your plans are always flawless, you know that."

"Except for this time." Sock sounds small and ashamed.

"Bullshit," Jon sighs. "It was a fluke."

"But I plan for flukes, Jon. I plan for slipups and mistakes and one in a million odds. It's my job." He bites his lip for a moment, shutting his eyes. "If I can't do that, what am I good for?"

Jon is not good with words. Never has been, and they both know it. But he grips Sock's hand again and looks at him quietly and somehow, Sock knows exactly what he wants to say. That it isn't his fault. That there's only so much a person can do. That unpredictability is the norm, especially in their line of work. That even the best damn coordinator in the world, which he is, will make more than a single mistake in their career.

A calloused palm rests on Sock's cheek and he turns his head to kiss the middle of it. "I'm just glad you made it out," the blond murmurs, squeezing Sock's hand with his free one. "When you told us to leave I wanted to do anything but." He shrugs, a small smirk creeping onto his lips. "You know I can't ignore your orders."

"Except when you do."

"Except when I do," Jon agrees. "Which I wish I had. I wanted to kill every guy in there when we broke back in - better prepared this time - and saw you on the ground." A momentary pause. "I did, actually. Kill every guy in there, I mean. Wow. Dreams do come true."

Sock cackles at that, and despite the pain that twinges in his ribs he barely flinches. "Vengeance looks good on you." He scoots to the side and pats the tiny bed, making room for Jon to gingerly climb on. Although he's practically hanging off, he doesn't complain, just pulls Sock into his chest as gently as he can and buries his face in his hair. Gentle fingers card through the messy spots, still tangled in places and desperately in need of a good wash. All things that can wait until later. Sock is content for the time being with his ear pressed to the steady thrum of Jon's heartbeat.


End file.
